


Performance Review

by stonecarapace



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, M/M, Madeleine Era, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 10:23:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Monsieur," Javert mutters, barely above a whisper, "if you wish to speak to me, perhaps we should retire to somewhere without so many eager listeners."</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Here will do."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Performance Review

**Author's Note:**

> Another one written for the kinkmeme. (I think I'm sensing a trend, here.)

The station-house is full and bustling with activity; it is the hour when many police are arriving for their shift and others are hastily writing out full reports of the day's work. Javert, who habitually overstays his hours, settles at his desk with his quill and paper, his fingers rough with sawdust. He only breaks his concentration for the younger men who approach him with questions or findings or oral reports he has ordered; half his mind is on ensuring his report is clear and concise, and the other half on the docks which he will visit tonight. The noise in the station is rambunctious, and there is laughter in the air.

The door to the station opens, letting in the chill from outside, and the building falls to silence in waves. Javert, caught in his writing, does not notice at first—perhaps if he allowed himself some kinship, the man passing behind him would have tapped him on the shoulder to alert him to the change in the air, but as it is, the man only glances curiously at Javert and hurries away. As such, it is not until Javert hears a cordial, "Inspector Javert," that he suspects anything is amiss. He knows that voice very well, and he tenses before he can order himself still. He looks up into the face of M. Madeleine and is acutely aware of the way all eyes are trained on the two of them. The nature of this interruption makes him bristle, and he doesn't bother to temper his frown as he stands and inclines his head to M. Madeleine.

"Monsieur le Maire," he says. "I didn't see you enter. Is something the matter?"

"It's a small thing, Javert." The talk has started to return to the station, but it's much more reserved than before, and the men make a show of not watching them. "Perhaps too small to trouble you with, but," he pauses, "it seemed to be within your realm of expertise." If there is a change in M. Madeleine's voice, it is a small one, but it strikes Javert in his gut—he would believe that he's imagining things, but M. Madeleine steps around the desk so that he's standing close to him, and there's no mistake to be made there. 

Part of Javert wants to run. Duty keeps him rooted where he is. Madeleine is too soft, and Javert does not trust his chained neck when it's out of sight, but he is still M. le Maire, and Javert would rather bear the horrible twisting inside than bring a superior to shame. "I will do what I can to help." 

Madeleine glances about the room. The two are receiving only the occasional curious stare, now, and the room is buzzing softly with conversation, so that theirs can be obscured. He takes a step closer to Javert, so that if he were to lift a hand it would be a difficult thing for him to not touch Javert. "I know you will," he murmurs. 

Javert has never been spoken to in that tone, but he's heard it before, in the streets, in jails, through walls. His body prickles with it; the moment is surreal. He is hot under the collar of his coat. He does not dare to look Madeleine in the eyes, though whether that is out of fear of finding an alluring disposition or a serious one, he's not sure. "Monsieur," he mutters, barely above a whisper, "if you wish to speak to me, perhaps we should retire to somewhere without so many eager listeners."

"Here will do." Madeleine's fingers spread open across the desk, a fanning gesture that makes Javert's pulse increase. He has never noticed Madeleine's hands in such detail before, but as they're the only part of him he is brave enough to study, he finds them—intriguing. The room is stuffier than before, the conversation close, and Javert wonders if Madeleine feels as claustrophobic as he suddenly does. "Inspector, you have done a fine job since your arrival at Montreuil sur Mer." He takes a step closer, so that their chests are nearly touching. The effect it has on Javert is immediate. God's lightning, had it struck the building at that moment, could not bring Javert's gaze higher than Madeleine's calloused hand. "I have but one complaint."

"Speak it, then," Javert says. Then, remembering himself: "Monsieur."

"It is that, good Javert." Madeleine dips his face closer, so his warm breath hisses over Javert's ear. "You often seem to forget your place. I feel that you hound me as a dog. Do not think that your snarling has gone unnoticed." Madeleine's fingertips tremble, and he closes his hand into a fist. The violence of the action makes it impossible to ignore what is happening inside Javert: His hardness has become so pronounced that it has begun to press against his trousers. If Javert were to look into Madeleine's face, he would see conflict there, though it would be impossible for him to parse its source. 

There is a moment of silence, wherein the hushed susurrus of conversation swarms over Javert and he feels that every eye is trained upon him, as if every soul in the room is witness to the blood filling his prick and every ear can hear the racing of his heart. It occurs to him that he should summon a reply, an apology for his insubordination. He attempts to wet his lips with a dry tongue, clears a throat that is clasped shut, and manages to creak out, "Monsieur le Maire, forgive me. I..." What else is there to say? To admit that he suspects M. le Maire of criminal origins is to set the prey to flight; to omit his thoughts is to lie to a superior who's already expressed disappointment in Javert. He's at a loss.

Madeleine saves him. "You will learn, Javert, as I learned, that forgiveness is something to earn. Do you wish to prove yourself to me?"

"Yes, Monsieur. Perhaps...somewhere else." Even as he says it, Javert is aware that he's already lost this battle.

"The eyes of God are everywhere," Madeleine says, "but the eyes of man seem to pierce you to greater effect. You will prove your loyalty here." He lowers his voice; his lips brush at Javert's ear and send thrills straight between his legs. "Which will it be, Javert? Over the desk, so they may see your face, or on your knees, so they can watch their Inspector servicing his Monsieur le Maire?" Javert's cock twitches at the mere idea, and he snaps a hand about his rapier's handle so that he won't touch himself. He's painfully aware of how the color must look in his cheeks, and he wonders how much of his lust is visible in his countenance. 

A police spy laughs at something, and Javert knows that he must be the source. He presses his thighs together in an attempt to control himself; he bitterly hopes that M. Madeleine is enjoying himself. He glances, despite himself, at M. le Maire's trousers, and finds the visible line of an erection there, with all its intimidating girth. Javert's cock twitches again, and, without meaning to, he leans closer to Madeleine—but Madeleine pulls back so their chests do not touch. Javert glances into his face and sees him smiling. 

"Well, Javert? Which is your preference?"

He cannot honestly expect Javert to answer. It's taken all of his self-control to not lose himself here, to scream or go mad or—or to—"Monsieur," he whispers, hating the plea in his voice. Anything to make this nightmare end. It doesn't matter.

Madeleine touches Javert's collar in a way that can only be a threat. "Tell me," he growls, bestial, the words rolling against the sensitive shell of Javert's ear. 

It is too much. Javert's thighs tremble and his back arches as he comes; he can't help the soft gasp that escapes his lips, and can only subdue the groan afterward through great force of will. His seed soaks into the fabric of his trousers, hot and quick, and it pulses out in waves that leave him shivering. When he is finished, he can only stand very still and wonder how much of his internal agony was visible on his face. M. le Maire, naturally, would not have missed it.

Madeleine sighs into his ear, though whether from contentment or disappoint is a mystery. He takes a step back, and Javert can breathe again but does not dare. "Very good, Javert," he says, conversationally—but it seems like he is shouting it to the room. "You will let me know how the investigation goes." 

"Of course, Monsieur le Maire." 

Madeleine tracks his way through the labyrinth of desks and men, offers light greetings and farewells as he goes—the chill rushes in through the door as he parts, but it does nothing to soothe the fires that have been stoked within Javert.


End file.
